


with both eyes forward

by Byacolate



Series: the clock knows the hour [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Greek Mythology, Greek Mythology AU, M/M, Marshmallow Adaar, Pantheon shenanigans, That Hades and Persephone AU, affectionate husbands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-07
Updated: 2015-03-07
Packaged: 2018-03-16 14:42:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3492200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Byacolate/pseuds/Byacolate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They are not Zeus and Hera, loathsome but bound, and Dorian doesn't care a whit to pretend they are.</p>
            </blockquote>





	with both eyes forward

**Author's Note:**

> Naturally, the artwork that transcends time and space with its loveliness is the product of [robbicide's](http://robbicide.tumblr.com/) genius. I'm still beside myself about it weeks later. You can find the picture in all its solitary glory [here](http://robbicide.tumblr.com/post/112941914437/heres-another-collaboration-piece-from-me-and/).

 

The horns of the Horae herald his arrival like the second coming of spring, and Dorian flies to his feet. Wine is upended in his haste across the marble of the pavilion. His mother scolds, but Dorian pays her no mind; instead, he moves to the edge of the floor to stare down toward the thickets of trees, the gardens that overflow of his mother’s design.

 

Had the horns never sounded, Dorian still would have noticed his approach in the tremor of the earth and the stillness of the air.

 

Dorian’s heart leaps into this throat when a familiar pair of horns finally breaks the treeline, and his body acts as though it is pulled by an invisible tether. His feet carry him swiftly through the mumbling court, ignoring pointed fingers and stares, and the gentle tut of disapproval at the shameless trail of budding life that follows his every step. Flora, lush in his wake, proclaims what a courtwide preference for coyness (outside of the orgy halls, the irony is droll) finds distasteful. He could not care less if they find the exuberance of his affection to be obscene; they are not Zeus and Hera, loathsome but bound, and Dorian doesn't care a whit to pretend they are - regardless of the company they keep.

 

Pantheon grows dark slowly but surely as Apollo goes to retire for the evening, but there is yet enough light to see Adaar’s expression ease into something like pleasure at Dorian’s approach. The grass beneath his feet springs swift and soft with each footfall, until the rumble of the gods is but a murmur on the hill behind him.

 

And once Dorian is close enough to touch, he does not hesitate.

 

“I’m surprised you made the journey,” Dorian says, relearning the shape of Adaar’s hands, the girth of his monumental arms, the dear column of his neck. Flowers follow the path of his palms until hellebore blooms from behind Adaar’s ears, and crocus encircles his wrists, and ivy has twisted itself comfortably about his horns. Dorian wears Adaar’s gold proudly, as he ever does, and within him ignites a full-bellied pleasure at the sight of his king so laden with Dorian's _own_ creation. "It is a long one. Rather out of your way."

 

“I was bidden,” says he, then admits, “and I was told you would be here,” as his smile grows and he ducks his head to receive Dorian’s kiss.

 

It is a long one - much time has passed since their last parting. A full season, and more. So it is a full season's kiss Dorian offers, unabashed in his ardor as he is in all things. “There is wine,” Dorian feels he must say before his knees weaken any further, a very near thing as Adaar smiles against his mouth.

 

“I gathered as much, from your taste.”

 

“Truly?" Dorian says, mirth curling around the word in a fashion he hopes comes across as witty, rather than hopelessly smitten. "And what else do you taste?”

 

Adaar only smiles like Dorian’s said something particularly clever and kisses him again. He smells like frankincense from the journey and of the flowers that burst at Dorian’s will but without his say, and summer has finally come to Dorian’s heart.

 

“You must be hungry,” he tries again later, far too soon, when the sky is a heavy blue blanket of stars. Dorian hasn’t had his fill yet, not of Adaar's scent or the cradle of his arms, but such a fullness may not exist. Whether it is or not, it is a completion he will never come to know on the lawn of the Pantheon where all prying eyes might see if they cared to peek around the hedgerows. Adaar touches the laurels in Dorian's hair, the gold at his throat, one hand ever at the small of his back, and Dorian is loathe to let him go for even practicality’s sake.

 

Zeus’ voice is a thunderous nuisance somewhere on the hill, but it is one that Dorian pays no mind if Adaar sees fit to do the same.  

 

“I will keep,” he says, to Dorian’s delight, “for now.”

 

“And will you stay the night?” Dorian presses.

 

A cool breeze twines through the trees at Adaar’s back, and while it is a nostalgic fragrance so high on the mount, it cannot remind Dorian of home. Few things do, now, that are not hidden in shadow, gleaming with gold, crackling and popping cedar sap to feed a roaring hearth fire. They are swathed in darkness, but the smiling press of lips to Dorian’s brow need not be seen to be understood. “I will do as my consort desires.”

 

“The things you say,” Dorian murmurs, and resolves himself to the stretch of silence and the cool press of lips to follow.

**Author's Note:**

> Inquire about fic requests [here!](http://wardencommando.tumblr.com/ask)  
> Title from “Up in the Rafters” by Lady Lamb the Beekeeper: _I want to see you with both my eyes forward / In the fields of rye and up in the rafters / Hungrily_
> 
> If you are so inclined, feel free to follow [my Tumblr](http://wardencommando.tumblr.com/).


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